


The Blood on the Floor and the Love in Your Yell

by loubuttons



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017)
Genre: Angst, Chains, Gen, Major Character Injury, Mutilation, Peter Parker Needs a Hug, Platonic Cuddling, Platonic Relationships, Torture, Waterboarding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-30
Updated: 2018-11-30
Packaged: 2019-09-02 14:16:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,015
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16788586
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/loubuttons/pseuds/loubuttons
Summary: Weak, he struggles against vibranium chains. He waits with bated breath; two entire seconds pass before they pull Tony’s limp body out of the water.





	The Blood on the Floor and the Love in Your Yell

**Author's Note:**

  * For [parkrstark](https://archiveofourown.org/users/parkrstark/gifts).



> Title is taken from "A Father's First Spring" by the Avett Brothers.

“Stop, please, stop -- you’re gonna kill him! You’ll  _ kill him!” _

Peter lost his composure two days ago. Weak, he struggles against vibranium chains. He waits with bated breath; two entire seconds pass before they pull Tony’s limp body out of the water. Sobbing quietly, he watches as Tony gasps, gulping down air. 

“Let him go. Just let him go,” 

Snot drips down his chin, mingling with sweat and tears on his neck. Tony’s agonized wheezing brands Peter’s heart. As he listens to his hacking coughs, water bursting out of Tony’s mouth, he hears his ribs crack under the strain. The sound leaves Peter breathless. 

True to form, their captors don’t acknowledge Peter. One by one, they file out silently and abandon Tony on the floor. Madly, he scrambles to the corner of his cell, hunched into a shivering ball. 

“Mr. Stark?” Throat raw, Peter croaks, “Mr. Stark, are your ribs okay?” 

Aware that the question is moronic, but desperate to hear Tony speak, Pere yanks against his chains. 

“Mr. Stark?” 

Vacantly, Tony stares at the filthy floor, which is painted by blood mingling with water. Pink swirls slowly curl toward each other. Tony just watches. 

“Tony?” Despairing, Peter whispers his mentor’s name. 

Slowly, blinking, Tony raises his wobbling neck. Although his eyes hold Peter’s, they remain distant and clouded. 

Inhaling deeply, he tries to speak gently, “It’s Peter. Peter Parker,” 

Tony should know that. But he’s staring at Peter with the same blank disinterest he would a stranger. 

“Peter?” 

An awful red grimace twists Peter’s face. Tony’s voice is wrecked from screaming into oppressive water. Only Peter heard those wails. 

“Yeah, I’m here, Tony,” 

A shuddering sob cracks his lips, “Did they hurt you? Did they hurt you, Peter? I’m sorry -- so sorry,” 

Dangerously, the chains creak under the force of Peter’s hopeless fury. Blood trails down his wrists, licking his fingertips. In the past three days, he’s worked away his own skin until he caught glimpses of bone, praying that the chains will give. But the wounds heal over, and he’s no nearer to Tony’s arms. 

“No, Mr. Stark. No one touched me. I’m okay,” 

“Your arms,” Broken whispers barely reach Peter’s ears, “What did they do to your arms?” 

Despite knowing the damage he’s inadvertently done, he glances down to inspect his own limbs. The sight of grey and purple bruises entwined with black and red blood almost distracts from the lingering smell of pus. 

“Nothing. That was my fault,” 

The pain faded to a dull burn the day before. Trembling, Tony shakes his drenched head, “None-none of this is your fault, Pete. Don’t say that,” 

Relentless shivers savage his shoulders. He shudders with each exhale. Unable to explain that their tormentors have spared Peter any brutality and that every injury he has is self-inflicted, he just nods. He isn’t sure what Tony would do with that knowledge in his current state. 

“I’m gonna get us out of here, Mr. Stark. I promise,” 

Suddenly aware, viciously intent, Tony protests loudly, “No! No, Peter. Don’t fight them. Don’t worry about me. Just do whatever they say,” 

“I can’t -- I can’t do that,” Miserably, Peter shrugs, “I can’t just watch them hurt you. I can’t,” 

Tony Stark, who has two cracked ribs, water in his lungs, hypothermia, and is now missing his left pinky, looks Peter Parker in the eyes. 

“The only way they could hurt me is by hurting you,” 

Peter weeps. 

  
  


“Hey!  _ Hey! _ He’s freezing! Hey, anybody!” 

“Pete, just let it go,” 

“No,” Vehemently, he denies Tony’s repeated request, “Somebody! Come on, I know you can hear us,” 

Daring, he stares straight into the camera lens as he shouts. 

“Give him a blanket, a change of clothes --  _ anything _ ,” 

“Peter,  _ let it go _ ,” 

“At least let me into his cell!” 

His voice bounces back to him, the four cement walls that entomb them holding no answer. Their cell is actually one long rectangular room, divided in two by a cell door in the center. Peter’s chained to the far wall of one, while Tony shivers against the bars. 

A desperate stroke of genius forces Peter’s next shout, “You can’t get whatever it is you want if he’s dead!” 

After a moment of cold silence, the bars retract slowly. The creaking scream of metal against metal sends such disbelieving joy through Peter’s heart, he hardly hears Tony’s shocked yelp. He thumps to the floor, still shaking. 

“Mr. Stark!” 

Valiantly, he jerks the chains and feels his skin split again. Tony rolls onto his side gingerly, careful of his hours-old injuries. 

“You have to…” He wheezes between words, “Stop doing that, Kid. They’re not going to give -- you’re just...hurting yourself,” 

“The chains won’t give, Mr. Stark, but the wall might,” 

He isn’t surprised when Tony twists his neck to feed Peter a blank, unimpressed stare. In spite of the sheer terror consuming Peter’s every thought, he grins back. Something shifts in Tony’s expression at the sight. The exhaustion morphs into anger. The ice shaking his bones melts in the heat of his fire. The dull hum of the arc reactor seems to grow louder. 

Peter watches, in awe, as Tony claws his way forward. He hears his bones grate against each other. Still, he struggles on. Offering any help he can, Peter extends his leg, which aches from constant kneeling. Tony latches onto Peter’s ankle, his grip impossibly strong. Using his leg, Peter pulls him forward, ignoring Tony’s groans. 

“Come here, Mr. Stark, we gotta get you warm,” 

He folds Tony into his chest, fumbling all the while. The chains sing as he lifts his arms to curl protectively around his back. He presses Tony’s head into his neck. He knows Tony’s shivering is a gift -- if he wasn’t shivering anymore, they’d be out of time -- but he aches alongside him. Every muscle must throb from the onslaught. Like a cage, his arms try to imprison their shared heat. Anything to keep Tony from shaking. 

“Don’t pull on the chains anymore, Pete,” His whisper is horribly soft. 

“I can’t help it,” 

“Why’d they do this to you, huh?” 

As a trembling, frigid hand gently caresses Peter’s shackled wrist, he wonders if Tony is speaking to him anymore. 

“It’s alright. I won’t be in them forever,” 

Please, Lord God, don’t let him be in them forever. 

“You shouldn’t have been in them in the first place. You don’t deserve them,” 

“Neither do you, Mr. Stark,” 

“Don’t worry, Tater Tot,” Tony rasps, as if he didn’t hear Peter, “I’m going to get you out of them,” 

“I know, Mr. Stark. I know,” 

  
  


Peter wakes as Tony’s being torn out of his arms. 

“No,  _ no! _ ” He’s hardly conscious, “Mr. Stark--Mr.  **_Stark!_ ** ” 

“It’s alright Peter, it’s alright,” 

They drag him backward, unprotesting as he tries to placate Peter’s hopeless wailing. They lock eyes. As Peter pulls on the chains, Tony softly shakes his head, his eyelids fluttering closed. 

“Mr. Stark,  _ please _ ,” Peter hiccups through his tears. He’s begging him to open his eyes and fight back. 

“It’s gonna be okay, Pete. Everything’s going to be okay. Don’t cry, it’ll be alright,” 

They restrain Tony roughly. For the first time, they address Peter -- one mask shoves a gag in his mouth. Ignoring his choked screams, they stalk away. Tony kicks his legs futilely, an animal instinct overtaking his senses. Only two masks hold him -- and that’s all they are, just masks sent by the Devil to torment Tony -- but in his weakened condition they’re more than enough. He’s forced to kneel. A white-hot iron croons a soft song, hissing against cool air. 

Hating himself, Peter twists his own eyes closed, shutting out Tony’s agony. 

_ Let it end. Let it end. Let it all end.  _

Tony screams. 

Peter pulls against the chains so hard, his arm snaps under the pressure. He screams, too. 

  
  


When it becomes evident that Tony hasn’t the energy to feed himself, the bars roll back once more. The manacles fall off Peter’s wrists. Whimpering, he tears the gag off his sandy tongue. He trips across the room toward the tray of food. The metal tray screeches along the concrete floor, because Peter’s snapped arm can’t hold the weight. Tony’s huddled form flinches when Peter presses a soft hand to his shoulder. 

“Mr. Stark,” He whispers, “It’s Peter. It’s just Peter. I’m not gonna hurt you,” 

Gently, he feds off Tony’s flailing arms, “It’s Peter. It’s alright,” He tries to repeat Tony’s words of comfort from earlier, but they have little affect. Words are meaningless after hours of searing pain.

“It’s Tater Tot, Mr. Stark!” Sobbing, he lets Tony’s hand strike his cheek, “Tater Tot,” 

Tony’s wild eyes focus, but only momentarily. He swallows, eyes dry, “Where is he?” 

Bile, hot and slimy films Peter’s tongue. Looking down to hide his tears, he sighs shakily. When he raises his head, Tony is still searching, still looking at him for an answer. In that moment, he gives in.

“He’s at home,” 

“He’s safe?” 

“Yeah, Tony. Nobody’s gonna hurt him,” 

“Do you promise?” 

“I promise,” 

Slowly, Tony uncoils. He still gazes at Peter with clear distrust, but hesitantly inches closer. 

“Are you hungry?” 

It’s been three days, Peter knows he is. Greedily, he devours two pieces of bread and half of the water before he can physically restrain himself. But Tony just shakes his head. 

“Try to eat something,” 

Tony just shuts his eyes, as if he can silence Peter’s voice if he can’t see him. 

He feels like scum when he cajoles him, “Tater Tot would want you to eat something. To keep up your strength,” 

Cracking open one eye, Tony still looks disinterested. His hand, however twitches toward the bread, but doesn’t rise. 

“Here,” Peter says eagerly, “I’ll help you,” 

Thankfully, he doesn’t flinch away. He lets Peter, careful of Tony’s burns and his own arm, slowly coax bits of bread and applesauce past his bleeding lips. The water is poorly received but necessary. Peter doesn’t relent, insisting that Tony drink. 

“You’ll feel so much better, I promise,” 

Reluctantly, Tony wets his cracked tongue. 

The entire process takes an hour. Peter’s still ravenous, but rejoices as every meager bite of food disappears. Gradually, Tony slides nearer to his warmth. They’re both shivering again. All Peter wants is to curl under Tony’s arm, but knows the touch would be nothing more than threatening. They end up lying next to each other, almost touching. 

Suddenly, after constant silence, Tony’s ruined voice startles Peter, “Why’d they hurt you, Pete?” 

Gathering strength to answer, tears trailing into his hairline because Tony remembers his name, he bites his lip, “I don’t know,” 

“I won’t let them do it again, Tater Tot. I’m sorry,” 

“I know you won’t. I….” 

“What?” 

“I love you, Mr. Stark,” 

“No deathbed confessions, Pete. We’re getting out of here,” 

“Doesn’t change anything,” 

“I know,” 

Tony pulls Peter close, strength gone. Trusting, Peter rests against his chest, while Tony slides a hand into his hair. The stench of the cell is suffocating, so he buries his nose in Tony’s shirt. 

“Time for a haircut, Pete,” 

“Thought you liked it long,” 

Tony’s simply answer is all he hears before exhaustion steals his sight, “I used to,” 

  
  


As Peter wakes, he can hardly believe that Tony’s arms are still around his shoulders. Instinctively, he burrows further into his arms. When he shifts, Tony’s fingers falls out of his curls, limp. Where it’s touching Peter’s cheek, his arm is cold. Inhaling, Peter curls his fingers against the arc reactor. For a moment he listens for it’s song, clinging to contentment. And then he freezes. 

Behind it’s comforting hum, there’s silence. 

He scrambles into an upright position, wanting his eyes to deny what his ears tell him. Tony’s face is lax, his lips grey. He could be sleeping. 

“Mr. Stark?” 

He could be sleeping, if his heart was beating. 

“Mr. Stark, wake up,” 

He could be sleeping, if he were still breathing. 

“No, please don’t. Mr. Stark, you have to get up,” 

He could be sleeping. 

“Please,  _ please, _ Tony. Please!” 

But he isn’t. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Let me know what you thought with comments and/or kudos. 
> 
> (My tumblr is loubuttons. Come talk to me!)


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